Ballarat, 1930
On the edge of the goldfields, a shantytown of sorts had sprung up. Edwin stood at a narrow crossroads, scratching his head, trying to make sense of the directions Mrs Mallard, the barmaid, had given him. The maze of tents and shanties and dirt lanes between them seemed too chaotic to navigate.
Edwin gave the Scotsman’s description to a toothless old gent, who pointed to a little dwelling on the far side of the camp. Edwin approached.
There was no door to knock on, just a heavy burlap curtain fixed to the lintel with a row of rusty nails. Edwin stood in the doorway, despairing. The man was alive after all. He had not expected the disappointment to be so raw. He almost walked away right then, but only his promise to Orah stalled his retreat.
‘Mr Dane?’ he called. ‘Mr Hanley Dane?’
A grunt from inside. A moment later, a scarred hand wrenched aside the burlap and a leathery face peered out. He wore a filthy woollen hat on his head, its grey and red stripes forming a curious symphony with his mottled skin and red whiskey nose.
‘Who’s askin’?’
Edwin cleared his throat. Hastily he gave his name, and was about to explain his visit . . . Your daughter is alive and well, she’s been living with my family on the coast and she’s keen to find you—
But the words died on his tongue. Hanley Dane had clearly once been a large man, but his big frame was now emaciated. His cheeks were hollow, his face ashen. He reeked of drink. His living quarters were not simply humble, but squalid. Edwin had tried to overlook his abandonment of Orah and her mother back in Glasgow, but seeing him now brought home the truth with a jolt. Had he really thought he could give her up so easily?
‘If you’re from Immigration,’ Hanley said hastily, ‘then my papers are all in order, never you fear. I suppose you’ll want to have a squiz, though, won’t you? Of course, you will. Hang on then, they’re about here somewhere.’
‘Oh that won’t be—’ Edwin wanted only to escape, to flee this horrible place and never look back. He had come with noble intentions, but now saw that he’d been a fool.
Hanley narrowed his gaze, and then grumbled again. ‘Come on in while I look for it. It’s too damned hot to be lurking out in the sun.’
Edwin had to stoop to enter. It was dark inside, the tiny cabin windowless, lit only by strands of sunlight that made their way through the wonky corrugated iron roof. The floor was trampled earth, and the smell of perspiration and tobacco smoke hung heavily in the air.
Hanley poured water into a tin mug and placed it on the table in front of Edwin. ‘Forgive me,’ he said, more to himself. ‘A man’s not prepared for company.’
He retreated to a corner and pulled an old cigar tin from a hole in the floor. For a while he rummaged, then produced a grubby fold of paper. Carefully smoothing out the creases, he placed it on the table for Edwin to inspect.
‘Just as I said, all in order.’
Edwin gave the papers a fleeting glance. ‘Having any luck finding employment, are you?’
Hanley shrugged. His scarred hands hung limply at his sides. For the longest time he looked at Edwin, his gaze brimming with desolation. ‘There’s always hope,’ he said at last, chasing his words with a soft snort.
Edwin felt a jolt of recognition at the sound. He had heard Orah inhale that way when disbelief or amusement took her. He looked more closely at the shabby man hovering uncertainly in the shadows, and shuddered. How he hated to see his precious girl’s features reflected in that grey, leathery face. The tilt of the chin, the proud arc of the brow. The wisps of gold that threaded the man’s beard, and the eyes – the blue of a summer sky, identical in hue to those of his daughter.
His daughter.
Edwin backed towards the makeshift door. ‘I can see your papers are in order. I’m sorry to have troubled you. I’ll see myself out.’
At the doorway, he paused and looked back over his shoulder into the room. Hanley Dane had his back to him, bent over his cigar tin, shuffling the contents to make room for his dog-eared papers. Edwin felt a rush of pity for the man.
He took out the knotted bank notes Clarice had given him and placed them on the table’s edge. Two pounds, as if that came anywhere near compensating for the lie he had just spun. The lie that would, from that day forth, burden him so heavily that every waking breath would be a struggle.
Emerging from the hut, he gulped a mouthful of cold air and hurried away, his heart crashing against his ribs as he fought the urge to run.